These Lonely Souls and Empty Hearts
by sliceofperfection
Summary: When two lonely souls meet, their hearts have no choice but to either fill until they burst or remain empty. Such is the dilemma Rosamund Painswick faces whenever American playboy, Harold Levinson visits London during the summer of 1923 and begins to show an interest in her. An AU Harold x Rosamund story w/bits of Cobert and Martha x Violet snark sprinkled throughout.
1. Chapter 1

**I blame my Hughsband (HuddyJoy0524) for encouraging me to write this fic and being 100% supportive of this crackship. I am fascinated by Harold Levinson, and wish he had more screen time/interaction with his English relatives, particularly Aunt Rosamund because quite honestly they'd be so snarky, awkward, and precious (in my mind) anyway…I could go on and on. As of right now this crackship is just a product of my overactive imagination. So this is an AU story that will primarily deal with Harold x Rosamund interactions, some Cora x Robert moments as well as Martha and Violet snark, and maybe some other assorted characters, based on need. Let me know what you think, if you think anything. And if you believe this is total rubbish that's totally ok too. Enjoy! **

* * *

She always remembered him as the chubby youth with a head of thick copper hair, who couldn't even grow hair along his jawline. He spent most of his time near his mother, who was too preoccupied with her daughter's wedding to notice him smuggling the cakes prematurely from the kitchens. She noticed. But she didn't care to exploit such childish behavior. Not whenever Marmaduke Painswick, the handsome banker and self-made man from London, was offering her compliments she wasn't accustomed to receiving.

Now he stands before her in his smart grey tweed suit and overcoat trimmed with black fur. He's grown to match her height, his jaw strong and jutting out as he stoically regards the Crawleys standing in a row outside Grantham House. He still trails behind his mother, although this time he doesn't look desperately lost. He appears more comfortable when he clasps hands with Robert than when he tentatively pulls Cora into a brief embrace.

"And this is Robert's sister, Lady Rosamund Painswick," Cora announces ceremoniously as she escorts. "Rosamund, this is my brother, Mr. Harold Levinson."

"How do you do?" Harold takes off his bowler to reveal a round head now mostly bare, save for the patches of reddish brown that remain just above his ears and along the back of his head.

She lowers her gaze and extends a hand, hoping it will mask her surprise from this revelation. "Mr. Levinson, it's a pleasure to see you again."

His fingers squeeze hers, and Harold tilts his head to the side. "I'm surprised you remember our first meeting," He remarks, "I was quite the little brute back then as my sister often reminds me."

"Oh Harold," Cora rolls her eyes and practically scoffs at this. "Don't be dramatic."

"Your words Cora, not mine," Harold retorts with a lifted brow, following the procession back into the house.

Rosamund strides several paces behind, trying to disguise her amusement as her sister-in-law bickers under her breath with the other Levinson child they've mostly come to know through sensational stories. _Yes,_ Rosamund thinks, _they must only be stories._ For Harold Levinson hardly looked the part of the playboy American Uncle.

He isn't terribly unattractive, no. Despite the fact that he's balding and a bit rounder than most of the men in his age bracket, he maintains a strong presence that's quite difficult to ignore. And in the brief moment during their introduction, she caught his eye only to discover his chocolate hued orbs were full of a guarded warmth, and quite possibly even, kindness. Even so, Harold Levinson bore little resemblance to the man she expected him to grow into all those years ago.

They eventually settle in the drawing room for afternoon tea. Martha and Violet square off in opposite facing armchairs. Cora sits in the empty seat beside her mother whilst Robert steals the remaining chair near Mama. This leaves the settee for Harold and Rosamund to fit with a comfortable amount of space between them. Shortly after their arrival, two footmen enter with trays of tea, sandwiches, and little cakes of varying shades and sizes.

"Milk please, if you wouldn't mind." Harold interjects, signaling to one of them.

At this unprecedented gesture everyone shifts in their seats somewhat, shooting curious glances of differing degrees in his direction. But its Rosamund's face that Harold gazes intp. He cracks a smile and admits dryly, "I never cared much for English tea by itself."

"Not that you ever had a cup before now," Cora counters with an air of annoyance as she reaches for a tiny sandwich.

"Oh yes, how could I forget?" Harold sits back, his arm resting across the back of the love seat. He regards her coolly, "My sister whom I haven't seen in thirty-some odd years knows me better than myself."

"That was your choice," Cora insists. "Not mine."

"Cora," Martha lets out a heavy sigh, "we did not come all of this way for you and Harold to verbally spar the entire visit. Harold, try to find something to agree upon. We wouldn't be here if it weren't for your latest business venture."

The rest of the Crawleys uncomfortably sip their tea, scrambling for a way to redirect the course of the afternoon conversation the Levinsons have somehow hijacked. Rosamund opens her mouth to say something, but is cut off by her Mama's sarcastic peal of laughter.

"Have we suddenly traveled back in time? I expect Robert will start pulling on Rosamund's hair at any moment."

"Oh it's only a bit of teasing between siblings, Mama. A perfectly natural occurrence," Robert assures her casually.

"Perfectly natural in the New World I suppose," Violet huffs smartly. "But you and your sister were brought up in a more disciplined world, my dear boy, where such behavior was not tolerated."

Martha regards her English counterpart through narrowed eyes, her lips drawing tightly together in a thin line.

Sensing the uncomfortable tension mounting, Rosamund suddenly finds her voice. "How long will you be with us, Mrs. Levinson?"

A few seconds pass before the older woman with auburn curls turns her attention away from the Dowager Countess. "The Friday following Lady Roses' ball," She answers in a more genial voice. "Then we leave for Paris for a week or so, followed by Italy, and I don't know, maybe Switzerland before returning to New York."

"Rosamund just got back from a trip to Switzerland, Mother," Cora supplies eagerly.

"Really now?" Mrs. Levinson arches a curious brow. "And how did you like it?"

"It was…quite nice. The Alps are definitely a sight to see," She carefully maneuvers around the sensitive subject with a slight curve of her lips.

"Although Edith fell ill from the drastic change in altitude," Cora explains as if offering up this information as a warning to her mother and brother.

"But the hospitals there are quite good about that sort of thing," Rosamund adds swiftly.

"Yes," Violet states knowingly, "it's quite a common occurrence in that region as I understand."

Rosamund glances over at her mother, inclining her head in silent thanks to a topic only they fully comprehend.

"Goodness," Harold muses thoughtfully, "it's a wonder anyone visits Switzerland at all then."

"Some might say the same for New York," Violet returns sharply, which earns her at least three glares from the other side of the room.

Harold surprisingly ignores the comment, and shifts in his seat until he's facing Rosamund. "So why Switzerland, Rosamund?"

She blinks back at him, momentarily stunned at being addressed so informally. With a shake of her head and roll of her shoulders she states plainly, "I had the sudden urge to improve my French. And it's _Lady_ _Rosamund_, if you please."

"Really?" He marvels, his mouth dropping open, "And the Swiss are better conversationalists than the French?"

"Well they're certainly nicer," She insists before bringing the cup to her lips and taking a long sip of her tea. Setting it back on her saucer with some finality, she rises to her feet. Robert and Harold immediately stand with rapt attention. "I think I will lie down before the dressing gong."

"It was good seeing you again, _Lady _Rosamund." Harold tells her, a crooked grin splaying across his visage.

She can't tell if he's making a mockery of her earlier remark or trying to be sincere. Whatever his intentions are, Rosamund feels her cheeks flush unexpectedly as she stalks out of the drawing room.


	2. Chapter 2

**This is MUCH later than I promised a certain someone (sorry Danielle!). But I wanted to actually develop a general outline that detailed this story arc as opposed to just winging it like I thought I could. With that being said****, there will (most likely) be some inclusion of a certain canon character that popped up in the 4th Series of Downton, just to make things more interesting and/or give it a more canon/fanfic feel.**

**Anyway, I am glad that some of you are taking an interest in this completely AU pairing my brain decided to create one day. So that gives me a bit more motivation to (bravely, yet a bit self-consciously) move forward with this story. Thank you very kindly, and I hope you enjoy the latest installment!**

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Her stubborn hair doesn't hold the fashionable waves that frame her sister-in-law's face, so her ladies maid continues piling the curls atop her head just like always. She settles on a dress of the deepest rogue underneath a sheer dark green overlay that shimmers with her every movement. She strums a few ginger locks from beneath the green band adorned with black and red decals, encircling her head. Upon her first glance in the shop the ensemble appeared mismatched, but coupled with her pale smooth ivory skin and emerald stained eyes, the blending of colors makes for an appealing look on her.

The padding of footsteps drawing nearer from upstairs, draw her attention from the mirror mounted on one of the walls in the atrium. She pokes her head into the adjoining room, the corners of her mouth tugging upward pleasantly when Edith descends the main staircase.

"I hope you weren't waiting long," Edith tells her before greeting her aunt with two kisses on the cheek and a brief embrace.

"That's alright," Rosamund lifts her gaze diffidently, "I am a bit early anyway."

"Well I'm glad to have caught you before the others arrived. There's something I wanted to ask you," The young girl admits, her reservations about the request evident in the wavering eye contact.

"Oh?" Her aunt lifts a curious brow.

When no further words are spoken Edith begins, "I was wondering if I might be able to stay with you after tonight. Mamma says with Uncle Harold and Grandmamma here, we're short on rooms and well with everything that's happened…I'm not sure I could stand being in such close quarters with Mary." She chews on the inside of her cheek, awaiting the verdict.

"Are things still not right between you girls?" Rosamund sighs heavily. Those two had engaged in war from the moment they were toddlers in the nursery. It seemed likely they might find some common ground or friendship following Sybil's death, but the opportunity had clearly passed.

"I doubt they ever will be right," Edith admits with a halfhearted shrug.

"Well in any event," Rosamund brushes it off and turns to answer her nieces' question, "You are more than welcome to stay with me. That is, if Cora doesn't need your help here."

She replies hollowly, "I doubt she will. She's much too busy to notice me at all these days."

"Oh I don't know about that. Between preparing for the Governor's ball, Rose's party, and the American invasion on London, I'm sure Cora will welcome all the reinforcements she can get." She means it to come across as comforting given Edith's lack of confidence in her parents' affections for her; she knows a thing or two about living up to the impossible standards put in place by family.

"I think Granny is reinforcement enough for all of us." She chuckles a bit, "Particularly in dealing with Grandmamma."

Rosamund snickers at this, "I quite like your Grandmamma. It's good for Mamma to be challenged every now and again."

Edith considers this before inquiring curiously, "What do you think of Uncle Harold?"

At this, Rosamund hesitates. In an effort to recall her earlier impressions of him, she finds herself not recalling much of what he said, but how he delivered his messages. "Not much," She settles for in disinterested tones, "he seems rather combative."

"Really?" Edith returns with a certain surprise evading her voice, "I got more the impression that he's more or less…aloof to all of us. Then again we only exchanged a few words on the front stoop."

"Who are we talking about?" Cora's voice floats down the stairs as they both turn to take in her figure practically gliding towards them.

"Oh no one Mamma…"

"…your brother." Rosamund finishes her nieces uneasy thought without a beat of hesitation.

Cora rolls her eyes at this, not in the least bit shocked by such a description. "Well he may be aloof, but that doesn't mean we can't _try _to show him a good time, especially with it being his first time in London during the season." She takes great care to convey a forced politeness. Clapping her hands together she completes the whole charade that Rosamund is not blind to, "Who knows, he might surprise us all, and be a rare socialite."

"That's rather…optimistic." Edith huffs, sharing in her Aunt's unspoken agreement on the matter.

Cora's shoulders hunch forward slightly as if her youngest's defeatism is emotionally draining. Letting out a terse breath she utters stiffly, "Try to keep an open mind. I know he seems rather outspoken and unrefined, but he is my brother after all."

"Yes," Rosamund replies encouragingly, "if I shut out Robert after every idiotic thing he did…why I think we'd sit in silence for ages."

Cora's mouth curls into a smile, and for a moment she looks uncertain as to whether be appreciative of her comment or take slight offense. "Well since you feel that way, I'll be sure to put Harold with you at dinner."

"Splendid,"Rosamund announces with a dwindling enthusiasm in spite of the half smile she's forcing.

* * *

Only the sounds of silverware clicking against fine china can be heard on their side of the table. She's not sure where to make an effort as far as conversation is concerned, and Harold seems to feel similarly until the first course is served.

"My, this _is_ delicious!" He gushes his approval, causing Rosamund to shoot an alarming glance from across the way at her brother. "What is this?"

Carson looks at him utterly bewildered before resolving to disclose the information. Rosamund feels her body tense and eyes flicker up ever so slightly to catch Mary looking just as uncomfortable as she feels by Uncle Harold's sudden outburst.

"Oh dear," Rosamund hears her mother (seemingly) mumble to Robert, "Is he going to react so enthusiastically after tasting every dish?"

"I take it you don't recall the food from your first trip to London, Mr. Levinson?" Rosamund ventures to steal control of the conversation from her mother, and onto more comfortable terms. "Or perhaps just the desserts?"

"Not particularly," He admits with a bashful half grin as he hurriedly explains, "Too many years and too many good meals have come between such memories I'm afraid."

"How does your American food rank in comparison?" Rosamund wonders with an air of vague curiosity.

He sits up taller in his chair, "Well I'm no expert, but we tend to over marinate with spices. Your food here is…blander…if I might say so." His glances towards his mother, as if waiting for her opinion.

"Not to mention the portions are twice the size back home as they are here," Martha chides before looking down the table to where Violet and Robert sit. "If your meals weren't so elaborate and served so routinely, I'd think you were trying to starve us."

"Why would we go to all that trouble when we could just ask you to leave?" Violet suggests dryly, her brow arching as if she's won this round against her sharp tongued American counterpart.

"Come now Mamma! We're very glad Cora's family could join us this time as they don't often get the chance." Robert interjects neutrally before shifting the direction of the conversation, "I confess I quite enjoyed the cuisine when I last visited New York."

"And the booze, if I recall correctly." Martha winks at him from across the table.

Robert clears his throat uncomfortably when he catches Cora's probing gaze.

"Although that's harder to obtain over there these days," Harold remarks proudly, "luckily I have friends in all kinds of places."

Violet replies to Harold, "Well I suppose Robert needed something to temper his nerves, what with sorting out all that unpleasant business you've found yourself caught up in."

"Let's not discuss _that_…not at dinner." Robert speaks up with a wave of his hand.

The families fall into a comfortable silence for several moments before Rose makes an inquiry about Mrs. Levinson's knowledge of the English Season, which brings up several stories regarding Cora and Robert during the conception of their courtship.

Rosamund's only half listening until Harold leans towards her and asks in quieter tones, "I suppose you never got into any serious trouble, Lady Rosamund?"

"No," She tilts her head back and smirks proudly, "My slate is quite clean."

"So you've never had to…_persuade_ anyone to get what you want?" He cuts off a piece of his meat, shoves it into his mouth, and looks to her for a response.

"Not by methods of basic illegality. But I suppose if you flash the right amount of green to the right person that could be persuasive enough." Her mouth twists to the corner of her face, an impish glint crossing her verdant eyes at the smart remark.

He chuckles softly, either amused or attempting to brush off the slight she's dealt him. "Tell me," He retorts with a crooked grin, "what is it that you _flash_ to get people's attention, Lady Rosamund?"

A confident smile transforms across her face, "I don't believe I need to flash anything."

"Is that so?" Harold echoes with keen interest.

"I have _your_ attention now, don't I?"

A low chuckle emits from his throat, "I suppose you do."

* * *

Three glasses of sherry following dinner, and a nearly empty sitting room prompt Rosamund to announce her departure from Grantham House for the evening. Cora turns in her chair and requests politely that Carson have the car brought round for their guest.

"Oh, that's not necessary," Rosamund interjects with a wave of her hand. When met with her sister-in-law's perplexed expression she merely adds with a shrug, "I'm only a few blocks south. Besides I could use the fresh air."

"Oh but its dark outside," Edith observes through a slight frown. "You really should have an escort."

"What about Harold?" Cora suggests with a congenial smile, clearly pleased at the idea. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind, being the only male left in our company."

Everyone's gaze sweeps over to Harold. He leans back in his seat, crossing one of his legs over the other and throwing his arm over the back half of the chair. He pauses for a moment then opens his mouth to offer his thoughts on the matter, whenever Rosamund believes to be speaking up for him.

"Yes, but he hardly knows the way," She points out casually with a flip of her hand. After an evening of deflecting his charming and at times inappropriate remarks given their setting, Rosamund's certain she doesn't have the energy to keep up with his cleverness.

However, it appears that Harold Levinson has enough leftover wit for the both of them. He moves to his feet with an astonishing amount of grace. Straightening the front of his waistcoat, he inclines his head towards Rosamund and responds assuredly, "Oh I doubt it takes a cartographer to reverse such a short route. Besides, I honestly don't mind."

Rosamund notices the pleased look spreading on Cora's face at this shift in her brother's otherwise indifferent demeanor since his arrival. She's running out of reasons to dodge him that won't make her appear ungracious to the rest of the family. Letting out a heavy breath, she twirls a loose auburn hair nonchalantly around her finger. "Well why not then…" She remarks in a mildly condescending tone, "...if you'd be so kind, Mr. Levinson."

She doesn't wait for him to respond. In fact, following her goodbyes to Cora and Edith, Rosamund doesn't wait for him to walk her out into the tepid, summer air. The patter of his quickening footsteps signal his arrival at her side.

"I'm sorry my sister can be quite persistent at times," Harold apologizes under the assumption that this is the source of her annoyance.

"No need to apologize." She replies flippantly, altering her path on the sidewalk to create a comfortable space between them. Harold doesn't appear to notice or redirect his steps towards her. Instead, he tries to strike up a conversation to fill the dull buzz of the London nightlife that stirs around them.

"So your house…" He clears his throat, "...does it have a name like all the others?"

"Painswick Manor."

"Painswick Manor," He repeats, bobbing his head prior to chuckling lightheartedly, "That sounds rather foreboding. Do you often have trouble procuring visitors at such an institution?"

She regards him with a vacant expression, "It's named after my late husband." The clicking of her shoes hastens in order to shorten this already brief stroll. She's not in the mood to recall the memories of the long lost Marmaduke Painswick, particularly to a man who seems content with joking about a sensitive subject with someone he barely knows.

He rushes to step in front of her, carefully walking with his back to the direction they're heading, "Oh...I…I didn't mean…to poke fun." Harold holds up his hands as if offering some kind of olive branch to the slight he carelessly delivered.

"Then what _did_ you mean, Mr. Levinson?" She halts her progress altogether, arching her brow.

He shrugs, and lets out a nervous ring of laughter at the abruptness of her inquiry, "I…don't know."

"You don't seem like a man who doesn't know what he means." She scoffs, finding his indecisiveness irritating for some unknown reason. This constant annoyance that appears most readily when he speaks to her is rather perplexing. Why does she feel an urgency to deeper into his words? Surely, there isn't anything significant behind his painfully obvious desire to find some commonality with his foreign relatives (more specifically her). And yet, Rosamund stays rooted on the spot, staring at him for clarification.

The prolonged eye contact forces his eyes away first this time. Shoving his hands deep within the pockets of his coat, he peers down between them and shuffles his shoe against the cement walkway. "Well if you're going to force it out of me…I was hoping it would make you smile." His chocolate hued orbs peek up at her curiously, the slight curve of his mouth prompting a fluttering in her stomach that unsettles her.

"You are quite the charmer, Mr. Levinson," She shakes her head, lowering her gaze and passing around him so they continue in a brisk pace, side by side. Rosamund can't help but add critically, "I can see why all of those American women throw themselves at your feet."

Instead of coming up with a smart retort, she hears an air of disappointment escape him. "Yes well…what I wouldn't give to only have one."

His unforeseen vulnerability catches her off guard. "You're not turning sentimental on me, are you?" She jabs with a playful half grin.

Harold teases, "Would you like me any less if I did?"

She stops in her tracks, her heartbeat stalling for a split second. When he turns around to face her, the soft glow of the streetlamp dances across his boyish visage. She thinks for a split second his question wasn't meant to gain her favor, but rather in the most sincere manner he can muster. It's reminiscent of her late husband's social ignorance, a nostalgic notion that stirs a warm feeling inside her chest. She averts her fixed expression, fearful of her innermost thoughts becoming known to him.

"Lady Rosamund?" He begins in a low voice dripping with kindness. "Is everything alright?" A tentative hand grazes her forearm, drawing her back to reality.

"Yes!" She jumps a bit like he's shocked her. Nodding emphatically she insists evenly, "Yes, everything is fine. I just...forgot myself for a moment." It's not entirely a lie, but her cheeks still feel hot from the way he continues to look at her.

"Well we certainly don't want that," His youthful half smile returns, and despite the initial surprise of his hand on her arm, she doesn't mind it resting there.

A party of chattering people slowly approach the place where they stand, prompting Harold to tug her closer to where he stands below the streetlamp. She casts a glance over her shoulder as the group passes by, reassessing their surroundings and mentally taking notice that her house is at end of this block. She looks back to her companion to inform him of this discovery, only to catch his steady gaze on her. The bubbling sensation in her stomach intensifies whenever she's aware that the hand caught in between their touching bodies is now resting on the lapel of his jacket. Their eyes lock again, and her breath hitches in the back of her throat when his arm wraps around her waist.

She feels a shiver throughout her entire body at their adoption of this close embrace. Like most things she's relearning about Harold Levinson, there's an unexpectedness in it. A comfort that simultaneously unnerves her, yet also appeals to her deepest desires.

"You're shaking," He comments lightly when nothing is done nor said between them. His hand then rubbing slow circles across her back.

"Am I?" Rosamund breathes softly, neither confirming nor denying the cause behind her body's reaction. She self-consciously drags her teeth along her lower lip, unable to stop her eyes from looking down at his slightly gaping mouth.

Harold inclines his head and mutters a sound of agreement as his other arm snakes around her shoulders and he closes the already minimal space between them. His lips feel warm as they slowly press against hers. It's brief, mainly because their rather public location, forces her to pull away sooner than she'd like to. And that thought alone is rather difficult for her to comprehend. When their mouths detach, both feel an awkwardness sweep them apart for varying reasons.

Bowing her head forward, Rosamund clears her throat and slinks out of his embrace. "I'm just at the corner there," She makes an effort to point her eyes anywhere but at his face as she takes great care to remind both of them why they're really here in this moment. "You think you can manage the trip back to Grantham House without assistance?" She feels herself inwardly cringe at how formal and dismissive the words come out.

Regarding his now lowered expression, she watches his hand scratching at the back of his neck.

"Yeah...yeah I think I'll be just fine. Thank you." He nods at her sharply before continuing stiffly, "Well if you can manage from here...I'll just be..." He points his finger in the opposite direction.

"Yes that way! It's that way, yes, thank you. For uhm...escorting me." Rosamund adds with an appreciative edge she hopes he can detect in her voice.

"You're quite welcome," He replies cordially while pivoting to make a swift departure. Tossing a casual wave over his shoulder he finishes with, "Have a goodnight, Lady Rosamund."

"Goodnight, Mr. Levinson!" She calls out too enthusiastically, receiving a half-hearted wave from his retreating figure. She continues watching him disappear and reappear as he briskly passes underneath the streetlamps that mark the way every few feet. Even from several yards away she can see the frustration through his wildly swinging arms. And she thinks maybe a hint of embarrassment by the way his head bends down.

Whatever emotions he might be experiencing, Rosamund knows hers are just as conflicting (if not more so). Even whenever she resolves that she acted accordingly given the geography and the sort of people who might bear witness to such a kiss, there's a tiny voice in the back of her head chastising her for breaking it off so soon. Just as soon as another part of her is bewildered by her enjoyment in kissing such a man.

She stands there watching his shrinking figure, on the verge of calling out to him and explaining that she truthfully did enjoy his touch, but the time and place of it all was hardly appropriate. But that commanding rational part of her insists an explanation can surely wait for another day. Especially whenever her fingers reach up and lightly retrace the remnants of his kiss that lingers against her mouth.

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**Ok so, I was aiming for awkward turtledom here. Rosamund isn't a particularly awkward character, but I think given the circumstances she would probably feel as such. Let me know what you all think (if anything at all)!**


	3. Chapter 3

**First of all, thank you to everyone who has shown an interest in this fic and AU couple, thus far! I am shocked that so many of you are intrigued by this pairing. But quite honestly, it gives me so much motivation and reassurance to hear that some of you think this is well down. I am still a bit self-conscious about them, but I appreciate all the kind remarks thus far. ****So this chapter switches POV's a bit. I wanted to give both of these characters a bit more depth. Hopefully, they stay true to their canon forms...minus the deviation in their interactions with one another, which are entirely AU. Anyway, I'm always open to hearing your thoughts/suggestions/critiques. Enjoy lovelies!**

* * *

Foolish. Impetuous. Harold racks his brain for the right word en route to Grantham House. It will prepare for his pathetic defense later whenever Lady Rosamund decides to confide in Cora of her visiting American brother's uncouth actions this evening. Then he'll brace himself for the inevitable: _Can't you be trusted to do a single thing without causing trouble? _Troublesome. He reluctantly adds it to the series of descriptors, knowing he fully deserves to carry the weight of each of these words.

What was he thinking? He wasn't. Not rationally at least. The respectable Lady Rosamund would never be caught with him. He was a Levinson. Not to mention one with several blemishes on his reputation already. He couldn't foresee a woman of her make and refinement mingling with anyone less than her social equal.

But even with all of this looming in the back of his mind, he can't stop thinking about her lips pressing to his in that single moment of weakness. He recalls reading the vulnerability that flickered across her otherwise stoic visage, feeling a certain responsibility for planting it there, even if he'd done so unconsciously. The sudden inhalation of her musky perfume made him aware of just how close they stood. And when her verdant eyes found his, the sheer intensity he found within them made it impossible for him to look away. She drew him in fully as she bit down on her lower lip, so obviously unaware of the effect she had on him until his mouth was already on hers.

And after that, their inevitable dissolution into embarrassment began.

He continues shuffling his feet rather brusquely up the front stairs leading into his sisters' family's home. He's about to ring for Carson when the door swings open to reveal the butler in his stately fashion. "Mr. Levinson," He regards with a tilt of his head, ushering the young man deeper into the house.

"Mr. Carson, will you have my valet meet me upstairs?" His intentions of quietly slipping away unnoticed to his assigned room are soon dismantled by the sudden appearance of his sister in the foyer.

He stops suddenly in his tracks. His stomach bubbles with nerves that crest over him like a peaking wave. "Still awake?" His tone conveys the surprise so obviously written across his wide eyed expression.

She teases with a demure smile, "Well someone needed to make sure you returned safely."

Harold rolls his eyes at this before meeting her at the foot of the steps. Casually slinging an arm around his older sister's shoulders he taunts, "Should I call you Mother now?"

Her elbow nudges him in the ribs playfully, a rueful smirk dancing at her lips. "I may be a Mother, but I am not yours," She slips out from underneath his arm, and proceeds to walk with him up the stairs.

"Well thank god for that," He admits dryly. "I'm not sure you'd be up to the task."

Cora doesn't respond to this condescending remark. But he sense her mouth tightening into a thin line, her brow angling to convey a slightly vexed look. He knows it well without having to turn his head towards her. Her burning gaze continues when she questions suddenly, "Did Rosamund make it home in one piece?"

This slows his progress, but he keeps his jaw squared and remarks swiftly, "Yes, she made it home just fine."

"I trust you _tried_ to be engaging," She says it, although he interprets the lilt in her voice as more of a question in search of an answer.

Harold offers haughtily, "Oh I don't need to try. Not where Lady Rosamund is concerned."

"What do you mean by that?" She probes with a curious half smile curling at her lips.

"She's quite the conversationalist," Harold remarks fondly whilst recalling the many swift retorts and sarcastic witticisms he found amusing.

"Do I detect a note of intrigue, little brother?" She badgers sweetly. Grabbing hold of his arm, Cora leans into him until her chin rests on top of his shoulder as if anticipating some kind of confession.

He scoffs at this and shakes his head at her. Trying to keep an even tone he replies, "You detect nothing of the sort. I find her about as interesting as I find you." His elbow digs into her side, forcing them apart as they make it to the landing at the top of the stairs.

Arching a brow, Cora tells him as they continue down the corridor. "Don't let Rosamund hear you say that, she might take offense."

He can't help but wonder, "Is she the sensitive sort?"

"As sensitive as an English Lady lets on to being," Cora shrugs.

"Well that means little to me," He admits plainly, trying to gain some perspective he asks. "More or less than you?"

"It's hard to say," She wraps her arms across her chest. He watches her mouth twist to the side of her face, a sure sign she's giving his inquiry some thought. "Could be more, but if it is she vocalizes it less than me." Casting him a sideways glance, her brow furrows. "Why do you ask?"

Blinking back at her dubiously, Harold racks his brain for an answer that will not fully betray his intentions. "Just...wanted to understand where you fit in with the rest of your husband's family." He folds his hands behind his back.

"They're my family too," She reminds him, stopping suddenly when they reach the door to her dressing room.

"By marriage...but everyone knows you favor Mother and I over the rest of them." He shoots her a good natured grin that inspires a hum of amusement from her.

Half rolling her eyes at him, she snorts, "Don't make me laugh."

He mockingly gapes at her, placing a hand at his heart as if her sarcasm's wounded him. "Perhaps I can trade you for Robert, if you were to trade me for Rosamund? You know how I always wanted an older brother anyway." He shoves Cora in the shoulder, causing her to step off balance.

"I'm afraid you are stuck with me," She nearly rolls her eyes and exhales, "So no, you can't have Robert." He sees past her irritation when the corners of her mouth twitch upward.

Trying to stoke her amusement, Harold leans forward and mutters in her ear, "Well I know I can't have him like you do, sweet sister."

"Oh!" She swats his arm with the back of her hand, "Must you always be so crude!" Her cheeks flood with a severe blush at this unexpected innuendo.

He chuckles at her reaction. "I wouldn't want to contradict your already stellar opinion of me," The notes of sarcasm ring clearly throughout his words.

Smirking up at him, a tiredness etching across her face. Cora leans in to kiss his cheek, "Goodnight Harold." She pats his shoulder and then adds sternly, "Try not to get into _too much_ trouble before morning."

He holds back the ironic peal of laughter until she disappears into her dressing room. Continuing down the corridor, he shoves his hands back in his pockets all the while thinking how much trouble he really is in._  
_

* * *

Sleep doesn't claim her restless mind until the early hours of morning. She can't cool the burning between her thighs each time she replays the sensation of his mouth against her. Or stop thinking about the way his arms encircled her waist in a strong yet tender embrace that made her feel needed. And she can hardly forget about the pads of his fingertips drumming against the fabric of her thin gown as he rubbed his hands against her back. Even with all of these accumulating elements, the moment was entirely too brief for her to rightfully claim it as anything beyond filial affection. Yet she clings to the memory like the pillows she's propped up around her lounging form, hoping all of it will somehow dissolve the string of lonely nights that stretch out before her.

Several hours later, the bright sunshine peeks through the thick curtains she neglected to fully close. Perturbed by this careless overlook, Rosamund pulls the bed coverings up over her head in an attempt to shield her eyes. She rolls over in her bed, burrowing deeper underneath the many pillows on the opposite side. Regaining the comfortable position that made sleep possible appears to be nearly impossible. Letting out a disgruntled sigh, Rosamund casts the blankets aside and reaches for the bell to stir her ladies maid.

Moraine arrives rather promptly, delivering the breakfast tray to Rosamund's lounging form in bed. As she begins buttering a piece of toast, her eyes casually glance up to her maid who's sifting through her daily tea gowns. She pulls out a pale pink one adorned with patterns of gold roses painting across the bodice. "What about zis one, Milady?"

"A bit formal for a solitary afternoon, don't you think?" Rosamund critiques before nibbling on her toast.

"But yew are meeting wif Lady Spenzer for tea zis afternoon, no Milady?" The young Parisian clarifies uncertainly.

"Oh," Rosamund exhales heavily, recalling the social visit she arranged last week. It appeared her most recent fixations led to such forgetfulness of separate social affairs. "Right, of course," She shakes her head swiftly, focusing back to Moraine's selection. "Yes," She agrees diffidently, "that will do for tea at the Ritz."

Lady Ann Spenser, a fellow compatriot of Cora's, developed quite a fondness for Rosamund in more recent years. Brought on by the untimely death of Lord Spenser and her relocation to London, the pair of them often took tea or walks along the shopping district to pass the time that couldn't be occupied by their remaining family. She was a charming young woman who could draw someone in with her dazzling hazel eyes and smooth, mellow tones. She had a gift for making people feel young, and that life still held many possibilities apart from the usual drudgery. Her forward thinking was a bit progressive for Rosamund's taste, but she respected the woman's passion. A passion she, herself, longed to feel again.

Rosamund readies for the outing, eagerly awaiting an afternoon full of feminine discourse. It's precisely what she needs to steal her mind away from recent events. However, as she steps into the opulent dining area she's immediately presented with an apologetic note, which soon makes it apparent the distraction she desires isn't meant to be.

Folding the slip of paper back into fourths, she places it in her handbag, and then resolves to slink off to Painswick Manor for a solitary afternoon. But before she can turn on her heel and make a dignified exit, she stops when a booming voice calls her name above all the buzzing chatter.

"Rosamund!"

She tenses and whirls around, her eyes scanning the closely situated tables for the owner of such a commanding tone. Then Rosamund spots her, ginger waves peeking out from underneath her wide brimmed hat that's adorned with a variety of white and orange flowers. And the flowing sleeve of her tangerine dress billows to and fro like a flag in the wind as Mrs. Martha Levinson waves a hand overhead to draw Rosamund towards the Levinson table.

It's then Rosamund realizes Martha isn't alone. His back might be turned to the front of the room, but she recognizes his balding head and broad back all the same. Her stomach flutters at the notion she simply can't ignore either one of them without being rude. So she does her best to display a polite smile, and return a small wave of her hand in the hopes Martha will stop attracting the attention of the other guests.

Rosamund takes in a deep breath and carefully weaves in between several tables to join theirs, which is pressed up against the far wall, but ironically has three chairs. She stands in between the vacant chair and Martha, leaning forward to partially embrace the seated woman. "Mrs. Levinson, how good to see you again," Rosamund remarks pleasantly.

"It's good to see you as well, my dear," Martha tells her amicably.

Slowly turning to lift her gaze in his direction, Rosamund can hear her heartbeat through her ears. She keeps the smile affixed across her lips, willing her cheeks not to turn red when he stands swiftly in her presence and regards her hesitantly. Extending her hand in a graceful manner, she inclines her head, "Mr. Levinson," she greets him in the most polite tone she can muster.

His hand tightens around her slender fingers and he deliberately holds her gaze for several seconds before muttering, "Lady Painswick...I mean...Lady Rosamund..." He corrects himself with a shake of his head before adding, "always a pleasure."

She bites on the inside of her lip to stifle her amusement at his nervous stutter. Their hands slowly fall apart when Martha pipes up again.

"You'll have to forgive my son, Lady Rosamund. He's not as familiar with all the titles and royalties you all place before yourselves."

Rosamund resists the urge to roll her eyes at this, and instead beams over at Harold Levinson, who appears disgruntled by his mother's criticism. "He need not seek my forgiveness, Mrs. Levinson." His face softens at her words, sending her insides into a fluttering frenzy. Turning her face back to Martha she adds, "I'm sure it can be a bit confusing to any foreigner."

Martha tilts her head to the side and shrugs while digesting Rosamund's words. But it isn't long before she opening her mouth to vocalize her opinions on another matter entirely. "I'm surprised to see you here, Lady Rosamund. I thought your lot normally stayed holed up in your lavish sitting rooms for afternoon tea. At least, that's the impression Cora gives."

This did hold some truth for her brother. He didn't see a point to mingling with others outside of his family for afternoon tea at the Ritz. Cora was a bit more open minded. Still, she didn't feel comfortable discussing her family with the Levinsons.

So she settled for the simplistic explanation. "Well I was to meet a friend here this afternoon, but she had to cancel on me at the last minute. I was actually just on my way out." She jerks her thumb in the direction of the entrance, hoping Mrs. Levinson might pick up on her urgency.

"Oh what a pity," She frowns slightly until her face alights with an idea, "You should join us."

"Oh I...wouldn't want to be an imposition," She holds up a hand, thinking she's politely and successfully declined the invitation.

"Nonsense!" Martha insists, "You shouldn't have to take tea all alone in that large house of yours. Especially if you've gotten all dressed to come out."

"Well I..." Rosamund glances over at Harold tentatively who shoots her a sympathetic half smile.

"Harold, chair." Martha snaps her finger and gestures for him to pull out their third chair for their coerced guest.

She slowly sinks down onto the cushion, and a chill runs down her spine when he leans in close enough for her to catch a bit of his musky scent.

"I'm sorry it appears you have no choice," Harold mutters quietly into her ear, which only increases her body's reaction as he pushes her seat closer to the table.

"Thank you," Rosamund remarks evenly. Her lips draw into a thin line, but when she catches that boyish grin splayed across his visage, the corners of her mouth turn up involuntarily.

Martha doesn't appear to notice as she continues prattling on about whether or not they should add Switzerland to their traveling schedule.

Spreading the serviette across her lap, Rosamund braces herself for an hour of conversational topics she'd hoped to avoid.

* * *

After two cups of tea his mother excuses herself and heads to the ladies room, leaving both Rosamund and him in a most uncomfortable silence. He stares at her downcast profile, as she carefully places her cup back on its saucer. He waits for her to turn her face up towards him again and effortlessly say something that sends him into another awkward blunder like before. But when this doesn't happen he takes it upon himself to ease the deafening quiet between them.

"I hope we didn't commandeer too much of your afternoon."

"No, not at all," She tells him rather abruptly.

The conversation stalls again, but Harold's determined to understand what transpired between them the other night. He leans forward in his chair, lowering his voice so only she can hear. "I am glad you made it home safely the other night."

This grabs her full attention. She arches a manicured brow in his direction, blinking back with a certain perplexity crossing her emerald eyes. It's almost like she's silently inquiring, _Why? Why would it matter?_

Her questioning look forces him to explain, "Only I would have felt responsible if you didn't." He pauses, lowering his gaze to the table, running his fingers along the top of his silverware. He then dares to add, "Just as I feel responsible for my impetuous actions the other night." He peers up at her probing gaze, noticing the surprise at his forwardness flicker across her expression.

Clearing her throat she insists plainly, "You need not feel any ounce of responsibility when it comes to me, Mr. Levinson."

Harold opens his mouth to object, but she cuts him off. "In fact, you need not feel anything when it comes to me. I'm merely a relation of your sister's through marriage." She looks away once more, plucking a sandwich from the center platter and placing it on her plate.

"That's not how I see you," He admits softly.

"Perhaps it's how you should see me," Rosamund replies sharply, her eyes flashing icily at him.

He jumps slightly at the severity in her tone. A sharpness he didn't anticipate, even with the impression that she was the one who pulled away from his embrace the other evening. "Right," He inclines his head, a bit put out by this bitter realization. "Well...if that's how it's ought to be...I'm sorry for kissing you the other night, Lady Rosamund."

There's enough of a pause for him to receive satisfaction in her slightly shocked expression. A devious smirk spreads at his lips, knowing his forwardness makes her uneasy. It's petty, all things considered, but for a second he doesn't care. Until her cheeks flush red, and she turns away from him altogether. Then a certain guilt overcomes him, despite his efforts to remain just as harsh in response to her own reaction.

"It..." Harold begins without the jaded edge in his voice, " ...it wasn't my intent to upset you, or make you feel uncomfortable in anyway. So I apologize if I made you feel either way." His hand slowly inches across the tablecloth, his fingertips lightly brushing along the side of her soft hand.

This gesture must coax her out of her guarded shell because she casts her lowered gaze back in his direction. Through heavy lids she inquires quietly, "What...what was your intent, Mr. Levinson?"

"I'm afraid if I tell you, I'll be accused as seeing you as more than just a relation of my sister's," He tells her honestly.

She nearly scoffs at the sarcastic humor he intends to inflict, "I'll say it again. You are very charming."

Her words make him grin broadly. A compliment he never expected, but wholeheartedly welcomes. He lifts his hand as if to grasp hers, but she moves it back to her lap and out of his reach.

"But I don't have time for charming men, Mr. Levinson." She states matter-of-factly, "The last time I made an exception for one, I wasted nearly a year of my life, and the little love I had left in my heart. I can't..." Her voice falters a bit when looks up at him again. But all it takes is a shake of her head before Rosamund finds the strength in her voice, "...nothing more can happen between us."

"What a pity," He remarks with slight disappointment, bringing his hand back to the fine china of his teacup.

"I will not have you feel sorry for me."

"I don't," He declares firmly to assuage her concerns. "It's just..." He contemplates telling her, but then exhales and sits back in his chair, "...well nevermind."

"What?" Rosamund frowns at his indecisive reasoning, although he's not entirely sure why.

"You probably wouldn't believe me if I told you," He remarks stiffly, stirring more milk in his tea. "You'll just say I'm trying to charm you again."

"Well prove me wrong then," She insists, pinching the sleeve of his jacket between her fingers.

His gaze flickers between the hand on his arm and her bright eyes, brimming with sincere interest. Harold relents with a slight sigh, unable to refuse her for some odd reason. "I would never make you feel that way, if you changed your mind about me."

Rosamund releases her grip on him and asks warily, "How can I be so sure?"

"Because you aren't the only one who's wasted time as well as their heart on people who really didn't deserve it." He counters with a sad smile. Shrugging, Harold confesses solemnly, "I know how...devastating it can be to discover someone only wants you for what you have as opposed to who you are."

She stares at him thoughtfully for several moments, as if this sudden revelation might have stirred a change within her.

Still, he makes it a point for them to remain equals, whatever the outcome of their impulsive kiss the other night. "Anyway," He takes a final sip of his tea before placing it back on the saucer, "you need not feel pity for me, Lady Rosamund. I just never dreamed we'd have anything in common."

"Neither did I," She replies with a warmth in her tone that gives away the soft smile curling at her lips. "And I will not pity you, Mr. Levinson. But I do pity Cora."

He blinks back at her, clearly confused by the sudden mention of his sister.

Rosamund explains swiftly, "I heard she's invited Mary's suitors for dinner this evening. So many bodies to cram in the dining room at Grantham House. It'll be a miracle if all of you can fit in a single room." She takes a bite of her sandwich, chews slowly, and then suggests with a wry smile, "Perhaps you'd like to join me at Painswick Manor for supper, instead?"

Furrowing his brow, Harold reminds her. "Wouldn't that venture into territory you've already banished me from, Lady Rosamund?"

"Well Edith will be there as well." She shrugs, not thinking much of his slight objection, "She's...not particularly keen on all the attention circulating Mary. It could be a good opportunity for you to get to know your other niece."

It all feels like an excuse to see him again. However, he just can't help himself. He knows he isn't much to look at, but in this moment, Lady Rosamund Painswick is looking at him. And even if her intentions aren't altogether clear (they can figure all of the details out later), he finds himself responding with a pleased half smile, "Well I'm not particularly fond of crowded dining rooms, anyway."

* * *

**Also, I wanted to comment on the pacing of this story. I realize that the timeframe seems kind of slow, but I wanted to make it follow (somewhat) with the short span of time the Levinsons spent in London during the Christmas Special. However, this chapter sets up the next one in terms of some serious Haramond progression, so hang in there guys! :)**


	4. Chapter 4

"I don't understand why you invited him. One less chair in Mamma's dining room isn't going to make _that _much of a difference."

Rosamund exhales, slightly irritated by Edith's keen analysis of her choice of guests for the evening. She hoped slipping his name in between Lady Spenser, and her son Phillip might go unnoticed. However she should have known her niece's penchant for intrigue outweighed her ability to accept things as they are. Even if this time, Edith's instincts point in the correct direction.

"Well if you must know," She glances over at the blonde as they descend the main staircase at Painswick Manor, "your Uncle Harold could care less about Mary's desire of suitors. He'd rather learn about his _other_ niece." Rosamund drapes an arm over both of Edith's shoulders' as if trying to add to her conviction.

"Really?" Edith chuckles in disbelief and then shakes her head with a downcast expression. "Well I'm afraid he'll be disappointed there isn't much to learn."

"That's not entirely true, my dear." Rosamund counters kindly, tightening her grip on the girls arm reassuringly. "Besides, it won't just be us three."

"Oh yes," Her niece practically sneers, "the Viscount Spenser is to join us as well is he?"

"Actually he's an Earl now," Rosamund corrects.

Edith hops down the last few steps at a faster rate. Her hand curling over the end post, she peers up at her aunt knowingly, "Really Aunt Rosamund, you're no better than Mamma when it comes to this sort of thing."

"It will be good for you, my dear." Rosamund assures, patting her hand. "And you aren't that far apart in years either, so I'm sure you'll find something to talk about. Even if you don't find him otherwise appealing." Her shoulders rose half-heartedly as she quirked a brow in the girl's direction. She doubted her words brought a great deal of comfort to her young niece, but she was determined to keep trying. Determined to save Edith from a future of spinsterhood.

Edith smirks and offers a witty remark in reply, "If you've noticed I am not particularly fond of men my own age."

Swinging her hips until they knock into Edith's, a low rumble of laughter stirs within her throat. "You get that from me."

"Aunt Rosamund!" Edith gapes at her, unable to stop herself from giggling softly at the other woman's words.

"What?" He holds up her hands out of slight surprise, "It's a perfectly valid assumption that such an inclination could be hereditary."

Her niece doesn't say a word about it. She has no desire to discuss her preference in men and then find they mirror her aunt's. Instead she merely lifts her gaze to the ceiling and sighs, "Am I to sit with him at dinner?"

"Well it's either him or your Uncle Harold," Rosamund informs her plainly, twisting the jeweled bracelet around her wrist to ensure it's proper placement.

Arching a brow Edith gives in without a beat of hesitation, "I'll leave you and Lady Spenser to argue over Uncle Harold then."

* * *

He arrives at Painswick Manor prior to learning that Lady Ann Spenser and her son will be joining them as well. "I believe you know Lady Spenser," Rosamund surmises lightly, shooting him a discerning sideways glance. Her lifted brow and droll half smile suggest a level of curiosity that gives him silent amusement.

"I do," Is all he offers, his lips contorting to show his enjoyment from playing coy.

Harold then casts his attentions on his niece, Lady Edith, whose eyes flicker between the pair of them conspicuously. "It's good to see you again, my dear." He tips his hat in her direction before doing away with it altogether.

Edith nods, regarding him uneasily. He supposed it was due to their unfamiliarity with one another. A quality Rosamund believed could be amended in a single evening of conversation. Although Harold remained unconvinced he could have anything of great interest to share with a girl in her twenties. Particularly one who wasn't seeking him out for all the usual lewd entertainment purposes. But in keeping with this evening's guise Lady Rosamund insisted upon, Harold promised he would try.

"Well," He claps his hands together, looking between them. "I'm glad you asked me here, Lady Rosamund. I can see we're to have a nice, quiet evening. Which," He directs his next words to Edith, "is a welcomed change from what your mother promised me."

"At least you could have spent more time with the gentleman if you stayed at Grantham House," Edith informs him plainly with a shrug. "I'm afraid you'll mostly be in female company here."

"My favorite kind," Harold chuckles softly before cautiously turning his attentions to Rosamund. He notices the sharpness taking shape in her expression, but he's quick to brush over his smart remark with a a boyish half grin. "But I'm sure Lady Spenser's son and I will find something to discuss. That was the intention behind inviting him, no?"

Rosamund's mouth parts as she clearly digests the meaning behind his words. Shaking her head she finally asserts, "Partially yes. However, he has expressed great interest in getting to know Edith better."

"Oh Aunt Rosamund," Edith huffs with a swift roll of her eyes.

Harold picks up on tension that this topic's bringing about and he struggles to hide his amusement. "I can see you and my sister share a certain affinity for matchmaking, Lady Rosamund."

"Don't you encourage her too," Edith tells him mildly, though the curve of her mouth suggests she's recognized the teasing quality in his voice.

"If I had to guess, I'd say your aunt hardly needs any additional encouragement," Harold retorts with a wry grin before regarding the lady over the rim of his brandy glass.

Rosamund eyes him scrupulously. "I believe I saw headlights out the window just now," She announces, nodding in the direction of the front window. "Perhaps we should receive our guests in the foyer." It's presented as a suggestion, but Harold notes the finality in her words as well as her evading gaze.

Edith files in behind her, and despite the nerves bouncing around in his stomach at seeing his old friend once more, Harold follows suit.

When she steps into the entrance, Harold feels his breath hitch in the back of his throat. Her beauty has matured since their last encounter as a boy of eleven and a young woman of eighteen. As Rosamund receives Lady Spenser he notices the golden sheen of her hair, expertly waved to reflect the fashion's now sweeping across Europe. Her blue-green eyes still shine as zealously as he recalls from all those years ago.

He expects Rosamund to present her to him formally, but her gaze catches his over Edith's shoulder. "Good God, Harry Levinson? Is it really you?" Lady Ann Spenser gawks in sheer astonishment, throwing away any sense of propriety he could see in her greeting to Lady Rosamund and Edith.

"It is, I'm afraid," Harold lifts his hand to the side, a bashful smile spreading across his face.

Unfazed by his deprecating countenance, Lady Spenser scoffs and steps forward to offer him a warm embrace. "You stayed young while the rest of us got old," She practically whines while placing soft kisses on both of his cheeks.

"Nonsense," He snickers, and then looks her up and down once she pulls away. "You look just as lovely as the day I said goodbye to you."

"You lie!" Lady Spenser laughs, but pats his cheek affectionately. "But it's a sweet one, so I'll allow it!" Glancing over her shoulder she gestures towards the tall young man with similar features to his mother, "This is my son, Phillip. Or if we must remember ourselves, Lord Spenser."

Harold extends a hand towards the other man and inclines his head, "Good to meet you, Lord Spenser."

"It's always a pleasure to place faces to names. Particularly ones my mother mentions quite frequently." Lord Phillip Spenser replies neutrally and retracts his hand.

"Is that so?" Harold remarks uncertainly, switching his gaze between the fellow and his mother.

"Oh not too worry Harry, nothing too embarrassing I promise." She assures with a casual flip of her hand.

"Well I certainly hope not," Harold returns, a chuckle rippling through his words. "My reputation doesn't need to be tarnished further with talk of youthful misdeeds."

She places a hand at his shoulder and throws her head back as another round of light giggles fill the air. Her head rolls around until they notice Rosamund and Edith standing off to the side with tense smiles and folded hands. "Oh! Rosamund!" Lady Spenser exclaims, a hand covering her mouth. "I do apologize, it seems I've forgotten myself. Please forgive my misconduct."

"There's no need," The other woman returns through clenched teeth. "Apparently I've misjudged just how many gay memories you and Mr. Levinson shared, my dear. Now," Looking to the rest of her party as if to seize control of her guests, she announces firmly, "shall we move to the dining room?"

He watches her stalk past them, her heels clicking against the marble floor urgently that suggests she need for space between them.

* * *

Once the ladies have indulged in their fair helping of gossip, the men join them in the drawing room. Rosamund is slightly surprised when Harold takes the chair closest to her, given the lively conversation he's held with Lady Spenser for most of the evening. He shoots a charming half grin in her direction, one that sends her a bit on edge in a room full of intimate guests. She's about to open her mouth and comment on whether the food was too his liking or some other subject of varying neutrality, when Lady Spenser sidles up beside her and intervenes.

"So Harry, tell me." She wonders softly, her voice brimming with an eagerness that's difficult to go unnoticed. "Is there _another_ Mrs. Levinson?"

Harold chuckles at this, shaking his head slowly. "No, there's only one at the moment."

"How is it, that you've gone so long as a bachelor?"

Rosamund hisses at the forward nature of her friend's question, "Ann!"

"Oh loosen your corset, Rosamund, if you're still insistent upon wearing one," Their knees brush against one another as Lady Ann nudges her playfully, "It's not a vulgar inquiry."

"It certainly isn't in my eyes," Harold chimes in with a reassuring grin, leaning forward so he might steal Rosamund's straightforward gaze again. "But I appreciate your concern on the matter, Lady Rosamund."

The redhead turns her face, meeting his eye momentarily before Lady Ann's trilling interrupts the shared moment of silence.

"You're evading the question, Harry."

"Evasion is what I do best, in case you've forgotten." Harold counters, winking at her with a coy smirk.

She appears to be at a loss for words, and glances back at her son and Lady Edith both of whom appear to be engaged in a low toned conversation. "Perhaps Phillip and I should take our leave before things grow too familiar," She tells the pair of them.

Rosamund smirks knowingly and nods, "I'm sure they'll see more of one another throughout the season."

"Yes," Ann replies before glancing over at Harold once more, "as I hope we'll be seeing more of the Levinsons, this season."

Harold nods and lifts a glass in her direction, "So long as Martha sees fit."

Ann smiles at this notion and adds, "I'll be sending along an invitation to Cora for my youngest's coming out ball. I hope you and your mother will attend."

"We'd be delighted," He responds.

"Well my boy," Ann stand rather grandiosely, shifting her attentions to Philip and Edith. "Mother's rather tired, we should be getting on."

They all move out to the hall and say more sober goodbyes than their earlier greetings. Promises of seeing one another throughout the season are made as they all embrace in turn. Following the Spenser's departure, a beaming Edith places a hand against her soft cheek that Phillip adorned with a meaningful kiss as she rushes upstairs for the evening.

He's about to follow her newly departed dinner guests out into the summer evening, when an idea suddenly strikes her. "I'm going to have one more drink. Would you care to join me?"

Harold blinks at her dubiously, stunned by yet again another invitation. She supposes his confusion is understandable given that she's not made things entirely clear. Even so, she tries to muddle through the conflicting desires he appears to stir within her. But when his respond stalls, she adds with an indifferent shrug, "Or if you'd like to head back to Grantham House...I'm sure you've had enough of me for one day."

"I don't think I could ever have enough of you." He tells her with a similar nonchalance.

But even with his intended tone of voice, the words strike a chord in her heart.

Harold takes a step forward as his brow creases, showcasing his continued bewilderment, "But...are you sure you really want me to stay? Given what you said earlier..."

"I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't want you to stay," She cuts him off, unwilling to bring up that uncomfortable discussion again. At least, not until she helps herself to another glass.

"Alright," He decides halfheartedly, gesturing for her to lead them back into the sitting room from which they once came.

Rosamund feels him watching her movements as she adds ice to the glasses, and pours out generous helpings of the amber hued spirits. The silence unsettles her so she remarks in a cordial manner, "You seemed to have an enjoyable time with, Lady Spenser."

"It's funny to hear her called that," He explains in a matter-of-fact voice. "When I knew her, she was 'Ann Frederickson,' and nothing more."

Handing him the glass she replies, "I suppose you knew her well? If you could be so informal with each other." Her eyes lift to his, their fingers casually brushing during the exchange.

"I knew her well enough. She was a dear friend of Cora's, and came by the house often," He expresses without any insinuations.

Even with the sincerity that dances across his face like the flames in the hearth, the flirting and overall lightheartedness of their earlier conversation, gives her cause to wonder. "And did you..." She glides towards the vacant settee before whirling back around to face him as she finishes the thought, "...ever fancy her?" She purposefully keeps her tone innocent while she sinks down on the love seat, not wanting him to catch onto the slight embarrassment she feels for posing the question.

Harold turns his back to the fireplace in order to face her. Silence passes between them as she notices him studying her resolute gaze. He brings the glass to his lips and takes a quick swig, lifting in shoulders as the admission hesitantly comes forth, "I suppose I had a bit of a boyish crush on her."

Rosamund leans back against the arm of the sofa, looking down into her glass. She hears the clinking of ice hit the sides of his glass as his footsteps bring him nearer to her. He settles on the other end, and lets out a mindful sigh.

"But by the time she left and came over here, I was only eleven. I don't think I noticed pretty girls then."

She looks up again and sits up straighter on the cushion, "And how do you find her now?"

"She's a very lovely woman," Harold states evenly.

"Yes," Rosamund rejoins bitterly, "And I'm sure you made her feel as such with all your remarks this evening." She brings her drink so swiftly to her mouth that the liquid burns her throat, the ice stinging at her front teeth. But she finishes the entire thing off, so she can push off her place on the settee and put more space between them.

Her mind whirls momentarily until she grows accustomed to the faint buzz that now fills her insides. She feels warmth and a certain boldness that otherwise wouldn't make itself known. Rosamund staggers a bit on her way back to the drink cart, but maintains a high head as she plops more ice in the tumbler and refills her glass yet again.

"Is everything alright?" Harold inquires softly.

His concern reaches her ears, and it takes everything in her not to cackle at how contrived it all feels. Swirling the contents of her newly concocted drink, she manages to regain her composure before turning around to assure him in a sickly sweet tone she doesn't recognize. "Of course, why wouldn't it be?"

Harold tilts his head to the side, his mouth turning down into a frown. "I don't know. You seem a bit..." He pauses, carefully fishing for an adequate descriptor, "...irritated..." he settles upon, "...by this conversation."

"Why would _I_ be _irritated_ about a topic _I_ brought up?" She rolls her eyes, leading him to believe his intuition couldn't be more inaccurate. Even though his understanding of her appears to be more precise than she cares to admit.

"I don't know," He begins again in the unusually soft tone that she's only heard him use on her. "Unless of course...seeing me and Lady Spenser get on so well has made you a bit...jealous."

She hates him for saying that. She hates that he sees her as someone with the capacity to feel such a demeaning emotion. She hates that someone of her make could ever be jealous of the affections he clearly displayed to a woman he claims to be a childhood friend and nothing more. But what Rosamund Painswick hates most of all is that, he's right in his analysis. Even so, she cannot allow him to think her jealousy stems from a budding affection she feels for him.

So she bites back in defense, much harsher than she certainly intends, "Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Levinson. I merely wanted to see what you thought of Lady Spenser, as I know she _desperately_ wants someone to spend the rest of her days with."

His expression transforms from concern to annoyance in a matter of seconds. "And what about you, Lady Rosamund?" He mocks, "Don't _you_ want someone to spend the rest of your days with as well?"

Rosamund opens and closes her mouth, trying to provide an adequate rejoinder. But all she can manage underneath his challenging visage is, "I already told you, I don't have the time..."

"For a woman who claims she doesn't have the time nor the heart to go down that path again, you certainly don't mind wasting both on me." He interrupts, an irritated twinge ringing within his words.

She counters pointedly, "I'm not wasting a thing on you, Mr. Levinson."

"Then why invite me to dinner?" He retorts icily, leaping to his feet.

"I explained that to you earlier," She persists through tightened lips.

Harold scoffs at this, gesturing wildly with his glass still in hand. "One empty chair in the dining room at Grantham House hardly makes a difference. We both know that."

"Edith..." She begins weakly.

"Lady Edith barely said a word to me." He informs her with an incredulous expression, seeing her mouth part open as if she has more to add as an afterthought. But he dismisses whatever rests on the tip of her tongue, "And if the next reason you bring up is Lady Spenser, I'm afraid I will have to call your bluff again."

Rosamund sets down her glass. "I was merely being polite," She remarks tersely, her voice rising an octave at the end of her statement.

"And you offering me a drink after all your other guests are gone, is that you merely being polite as well?" His normally bright, brown sugar eyes narrow in her direction. Harold steadily advances to the drink cart, determination in his gait.

She throws her hands up in the air, "Why do the reasons behind my actions matter so much to you?"

"Because they matter so little to you!" Harold barks, setting down his drink so forcefully it shakes the whole tabletop and prompts her to flinch. The escalation of their dispute catches both of them off guard. He instantly pivots and takes several paces away from her, reaching a hand up to scratch the back of his head.

Her arms cross in front of her defensively, and is about to tell him to leave whenever he finds a calmer tone this time.

"Did it ever occur to you that your words contradict your actions?" He admits quietly with his back to her. "And not only that," He circles back so she sees the hurt reflecting in his face, "but these maddening inconsistencies also affect me?"

She gapes at him and shakes her head decidedly, unable to disguise her doubts beneath a veneer of defenses. Her mind can't stop whirling from knowing what's in his heart as she whispers in barely audible tones, "They shouldn't."

"But they do," He declares softly, "And if you wish to stand by your earlier words, that we are to remain familial acquaintances and nothing more, then please do not seek out my company for your own entertainment."

She doesn't say anything to confirm nor deny her decision. And in what she views as an effort to avoid anymore embarrassment, he at all inclines his head and brushes passed her swiftly, "Then I'll say goodnight."

His hand is on the doorknob when she calls out in a tremulous voice, "You frighten me, sir."

He whirls around, trying to hold back the ridiculing tickle in his throat, "What?"

She opens and closes her mouth, reaching a finger up to twist a loose curl from the back of her head. "With your sentimental notions and generous compliments. You frighten me, because I cannot be so bold." Her gaze sweeps up and down his figure with a shake of her head, "That is not who I am. And I will not be made to be any different than the woman I know myself to be. Not by anyone. But just because I cannot find the words to say how I feel about your company doesn't mean, I don't welcome it." She takes in a breath and admits with her eyes cast to the floor, "I asked you here tonight because I initially misjudged you as a charmer who merely wanted to take what he could get from a sad, pathetic old woman like me. But it appears, much to my pleasant surprise, that you have proved me wrong."

A moment of silence envelops them prior to him telling her quietly, "I'm afraid, you are quite wrong in your assessment, Lady Rosamund."

_As I feared I might be_, she thinks to herself. Rosamund starts piling more ice in her drinking glass, not allowing her composure to falter in his presence. Her heartbeat quickens as his footsteps echo throughout the tensely quiet room. And she inhales sharply when his hand simultaneously curls around the bottle of whiskey along with hers. His grasp holds on firmly, prompting her to peek up at him questioningly.

His thumb rubs along the back of her hand in soothing circles. "You are not a pathetic, old woman." Harold murmurs sincerely, "Not to me."

"Well I am sad," She mutters, pulling the stopper from the crystal bottle.

He releases her hand and watches her fill her tumbler again. "We're all a little sad," Harold remarks with a dismal shrug, "Some of us just have greater sadness than others. Whereas others can hide their sadness more adeptly."

"Why are you sad, Mr. Levinson?" She wonders with a skeptically quirked brow. She hands him another full glass.

"Many reasons, Lady Rosamund." He accepts the drink, swirling the contents around. "But the most recent one involves the great esteem and affection I hold for a woman who cannot return such feelings."

"There will be other women, Mr. Levinson." She promises in hushed tones, "Other loves."

"Ah yes," He nods out of conversational agreement. Lifting his glass in her direction he asserts, "But there won't be another Lady Rosamund Painswick, will there?"

Before he can drink to his words Rosamund reaches for his wrist, "I cannot give you what it is you want, Mr. Levinson. I have a reputation..."

"I can assure you," Harold lowers the glass, her gloved hand sliding into his, "I would never ask for more than you were willing to give. But I think...I think you do not wish me to go just yet." He slowly closes the space between them, their gazes locking. He lifts a hand, slowly running his knuckles across her soft cheek. Lowering his voice he inquires throatily, "Is that a fair assumption?"

"It is," She exhales, unable to stop her gaze from wandering towards his lips again.

"So you tell me when you wish for me to go," He bends his face downward, his fingers slipping underneath the fabric of her silken glove and slowly peeling it down the length of her arm.

Her eyelids flutter open and closed at the sensation of him removing her glove, and then bringing the pads of her fingertips against his warm lips. Their eyes align after this kiss, "And I will go. If you ask me." His warm breath cascades down her open palm as he plants another kiss at the center of her palm.

* * *

**So kind of cliffhangerish? Don't worry this will be resolved next chapter. I just decided to split up 4 & 5 since this part of the story ended up being so massive. Let me know what you guys think, and if you still like the direction this story is going. I'm open to everything positive, negative, and in between.**


	5. Chapter 5

Every nerve ending in her body alights with awakened desire as he continues to plant warm kisses at both sides of her wrist, and then at the back of her hand. Her mind grows foggy from the combination of several post-dinner drinks and the intimate gesticulations his mouth purposefully lays against her sensitive skin. His gaze flickers up to hers, hesitating as if giving her the chance to rebuke his actions. Instead, her hand curls against the fullness of his cheek, a shy smile tugging at the corner of her lips in response to his questioning expression.

Rosamund traces her thumb along the curve of his smile, feeling the nearly invisible stubble that unevenly graces his jawline. His hand glides down the length of her exposed arm, slipping underneath the flowing sleeve of her dress until it rests against the blade of her shoulder as he takes a step closer to her. Her fingers dig into the nape of his neck, as she looks to his mouth hungrily before slowly leaning forward to close the remaining space between them.

It's feather light and she pulls away afterward, gauging his reaction to the kiss. She notices his breath now coming in at ragged intervals, similar to her own. She never realized a single, chaste kiss could leave one so breathless when compared to one with far more passion. As if reading her mind, Harold's free hand reaches for the back of her head and urges her face towards his again. At first their mouths tussle for control, but as Rosamund encircles both arms around his neck, their lips find a smooth rhythm.

Her mouth parts as his tongue snakes across her lower lip. Her nails scrape along the shoulders of his jacket before running down the lapels. Her mouth fuses more firmly to his when she tugs his body nearer. He stumbles forward slightly from the forceful action, prompting him to catch her waist and direct them towards a nearby bookcase. The books dig painfully into her lower back at first, but her focus is directed to the path his hands take from the sides of her face, across the front of her dress until his thumbs press into her hips. He fans the fire that burns between her legs when his mouth drops to the soft curve of her neck.

Rosamund moans her approval at this sudden development. Her hand run atop his head, giving into the passions she's ignored for so long. To be wanted by another man as desperately as she wants him, gives her the courage to act more boldly than she'd otherwise dare to behave. Harold grinds his hips into hers, forcing her legs to open wider and the hem of her dress to raise significantly. When he slips the sleeve of her gown over her shoulder and traces the front of her raise collarbone with his lips, reality draws her back.

Her hands fly to his chest, tension building in her arms while she tries to put space between them. "Not here," She remarks throatily, her purpose still evident when she leads him towards the powder blue settee that rests in the center of the room.

To lead him upstairs would only incite too many questions from the staff, and she couldn't afford those sorts of rumors while Edith milled about Painswick Manor. Instead she counts on the high back of the love seat that faces the only door from the main hall into this room to disguise any evidence of a dalliance. The change of location doesn't stall the many hot kisses and meaningful touches that transpire.

Harold's hand slides up her thigh, taking the majority of her hemline in the process. Her hand curls around his wrist instantaneously, feeling that same tension rise inside her like the time he almost took her fully against the bookshelves. He peels his mouth away from hers. She expects to read some semblance of frustration at the doubts that give her significant pause. Doubts she wish could be pushed aside more easily and forgotten in the throes of intimacy she longs to experience.

But the lack of frustration startles her more than his ability to invoke the deepest passions from her. She opens her mouth to explain herself, but he lifts her hand to his mouth and places a reassuring kiss at the back of it.

There's an attractive quality in him that is rather difficult to deny. How his lips take great liberties she'd otherwise forbid of any other man. This coupled with the air of chivalry he conveys in accommodating her preferences without even considering his own. Then there's the undeniable warmth that appears to permanently reside in his brown sugar hued orbs, even when he's delivering smart witticisms. And the boyish grin she finds herself on the receiving end rather frequently since his arrival. She finds it increasingly challenging to maintain the space between their bodies, particularly when his strong hands and determined mouth moved expertly across the many sensitive places only her husband knew existed.

The thought of Marmaduke makes her reconsider for a moment. But when Harold's forehead presses against hers and his hand kneads into her shoulder, she can't seem to remember her late husband's touch. Too many years have gone by, a thought that causes a pain to shoot through her heart.

Harold mutters huskily, "Should I go now?"

His voice steals her focus away from thoughts she'd rather not hold onto. Even still, she finds it difficult to let go. A lump rises in the back of her throat as she whispers, "I haven't...it's been a long time." She squeezes her eyes shut, practically cringing at how vulnerable this admission makes her feel.

He presses a reassuring kiss at her forehead, "We don't have to."

The sincerity in his touch and the soft timbre of his voice sends her heart into a quickened pace. As she leans back to face him, her eyelashes bat rapidly, and her hands take hold of the front of his coat once more. Rosamund shifts forward and offers her reply in the form of another hungry kiss before they fall back against the settee's cushions.

* * *

She stirs to a dull ache creeping up the back of her neck. When her eyes flutter open, she takes in the dying coals that burn lowly in the fireplace. She then realizes from the mealy patterned cushions beneath her that she fell asleep on the settee in her sitting room. And the foreign feeling of an arm draped across her hips causes her to sit up suddenly, her legs swinging until her stocking clad feet hit the floor. She whirls around, and is met by the snoring form of Harold Levinson. She holds her breath for several seconds, trying to determine if her swift motions have startled him from his slumber.

Once he rolls over onto his back, she quietly pads across the room towards the bay window overlooking the front street. Her hands run over the front of her dress, straightening out her sleeves before she plops down on the seat by the window. She glances outward to the paling indigo sky that suggests morning is fast approaching. She pulls her legs closer to her body, her thumb fiddling with the band on her fourth finger while she attempts to process the events from several hours ago with more clarity.

She felt enthralled by their newly forged intimacy. Shivers erupted across her skin while visions of their bodies pressed together flashed to the forefront of her mind. To be so deeply wanted by a man who only appeared interested in her, stirred up feelings she hadn't experienced since Marmaduke. Feelings she carefully tucked away for fear of giving her heart away too prematurely or without any real return of affection. She certainly avoided the latter of these thoughts, but the first remained to be in question. It was then that Rosamund realized out of all the calculated decisions she made throughout her life, she'd acted impulsively with no regard for the consequences in this particular moment.

He was several years her junior, and even though his mature demeanor made her lose sight of this, her reservations lingered. She wasn't like the beautiful girls he entertained on his yacht. She wasn't usually provocative or overtly sentimental like the rest of them. She didn't possess that youthful glow of beauty any longer. Still, he claimed to find her attractive and harbor feelings far more transparent (and perhaps intense) than what she felt for him.

But why did any of it matter so greatly to her? He was departing for the rest of Europe by the end of the week. Why should she care what he thought of her? They'd both satisfied their uncontrollable lust for one another. What else was left for them?

The many questions Rosamund was now becoming aware of could not be answered for an unexpected snorting sound arose from the nearby settee.

Her thumb stills along the smooth edge of her yellow gold band, and she waits patiently. The creaking of the sofa indicates his shift in position. She watches him glance around for any sign of her until his deep brown eyes focus on her huddled form on the window. Instantly, she feels like a child caught in the action of committing a mischievous act. Her legs uncurl from her body, and she stands immediately, folding her arms across her chest.

Neither one of them says anything for several seconds. Then a smile spreads across his lips, and he greets calmly. "Should I say...good morning? Or is it still...?"

"It's nearly morning," She interjects brusquely. Her words come out more forcefully than she intends, but it isn't until his smile droops that she realizes. "Sorry," She lowers her gaze towards the window and seeing the first rays of brilliant orange peeking up over the horizon. "It's just..." Rosamund whirls back around to face him, and finds him slowly approaching. "...the servants will be awake soon. Both here and at Grantham House," She offers a feeble half smile.

He stands beside her, his eyes following her line of vision out the window. "I would think so if they aren't already up and about," Harold agrees neutrally. Another pause encases them before he speaks the words she's currently thinking. "I presume you want me to go before they notice you've had an overnight guest?"

"I think...I think it would be for the best," She replies quietly, keeping her concentration on the window seat cushions.

"Is...is everything alright, Lady Ros?" The tentative nature of his voice coupled with his use of her name so fondly forces her to face him once more. She watches his brow lift out of concern while he takes a couple of steps towards her. "I would hate to have made things uncomfortable between us," He admits, his mouth now turning downward.

"Everything is fine," Rosamund assures with a heavy sigh. Her hand rests at her throat before rubbing at the nape of her neck. She tells him with a shrug, "I just don't see why we need to explain our actions to anyone. And if the servants discover what we've been up to..."

"You don't have to justify your reasons to me," Harold replies sincerely, "I told you I would leave whenever you asked me to."

This prompts a smile to crease at her lips, and she inhales sharply when he reaches for her free hand. Bending low, he plants another kiss along her knuckles.

When he stands up straight again his other hand slips over top both of theirs. Looking straight into his warm eyes, she suddenly feels dizzy whenever he confesses, "I want you to know that I enjoyed last night."

"As did I," She intones softly, her cheeks flushing as she recalls the intimate details of it all. Clearing her throat, she adds evenly, "And I appreciate you being so gallant throughout it all."

Tilting his head to the side, he muses with a smirk. "You sound surprised."

With a slight inclination of her head she offers quietly, "Pleasantly so, Mr. Levinson. Pleasantly so."

"Will I see you again?" He inquires, a hopeful twinge present in his question.

She peeks up at him, "At the sit in, and most likely again at Lady Rose's ball."

"I meant," He hesitates, his gaze wavering uncertainly, "like _this_."

Rosamund opens her mouth to speak, but can't find the words she's certain he wants to hear. Instead she retracts her hand, and looks on sadly. "I don't...I don't see a point to starting something that will end before it can properly begin."

"Who said anything about an end?" Harold counters, stepping forward as she bypasses him for the love seat where she haphazardly kicked off her shoes the previous night.

She sinks back down onto the cushion, slipping her feet back inside. "You're leaving after Friday," It's a fact that they've danced around over the last few days. A fact that needs to be addressed before she gives into the feelings accompanying her physical attraction to him.

His footsteps draw nearer and he settles down beside her. "For a while," He exhales lightly, "but nothing's for certain."

"And where will you go once your tour of Europe has concluded?" She demands, awaiting some type of charming answer that will undoubtedly hold the power to persuade her to believe he won't abandon her.

Harold's mouth hangs open, whilst he searches for an answer. When it appears he has nothing to fortify his argument, she shakes merely her head. Picking up his discarded jacket, she presents it to him with finality.

"It's better this way," She stands and moves towards the door.

Silently he obliges, but she can tell from his slow gait and downcast expression, there's a part of him that objects.

She tries to ignore this in her continued desire to placate him, "At least no one will be disappointed now."

"Well, I certainly hate disappointing people," He confesses flatly. And with that, he places his hat back in place, bowing his head as he makes his disappearance into the warm glow of early morning.

And in spite of everything she's told him, Rosamund wonders if she believes her own words as strongly as he appears to.

* * *

"You're up early," Robert observes as his wife strides down the stairs in her lavender dress, hemmed just below her knees. His brow lifts at this realization, as he kneels down beside Isis to release the tether from their morning walk.

"I have a dress fitting this morning," She announces as she continues down the steps with a definite purpose.

"Isn't it a bit early for that?" He wonders, a frown appearing at his face.

"I had to make it early," Cora explains, "they're delivering fabric for Rose's dress for the ball before lunch." Once they meet in the atrium, she adds with an ounce of irritation, "And I promised Mother I'd be back for tea this afternoon, so this was really the only time I could make for myself."

"Why?" He senses her distress, cocking his head to the side. "What's happening this afternoon?"

Her shoulders lift and Cora exhales wistfully, "Nothing of great consequence. I'm sure she just wants to chat a bit, since I missed tea with her and Harold at the Ritz yesterday." She arches a chastising brow whenever she mentions her absence that only her and her husband can attest to.

"Oh?" Robert smirks, catching hold of her wrist as she attempts to bypass him and into the dining room. She collides into him, his strong arms encircling her waist. Lowering his mouth to her ear, "And why would you miss that?"

She presses a hand to his chest, pushing back to regard his visage. "I don't know," She feigns an air of innocence, "perhaps you should ask the gentleman caller who stopped by my room and detained me as I was getting ready for the outing."

He chuckles lightly, "A gentleman caller? Who is this scoundrel?" Robert practically growls.

Cora giggles at his sudden outburst and shakes her head as her arms wrap around his shoulders, "I think you might be familiar with him."

"Oh?" Robert questions with widened eyes.

"Yes," She tilts her head back in reply. "He's rather tall. And handsome. And he has this incredibly charming accent," She gushes, a humorous lilt evident in her description.

"Sounds as though I have my work cut out for me," He rejoins, tightening his grip on her waist.

Rising on the balls of her feet until they nearly match in height she murmurs throatily, "Oh I doubt you have any real competition, darling." Her mouth presses into his, but they break apart prematurely when a gust of wind blusters through the front door as it swings open to reveal Harold in his clothes from the previous evening.

"Harold?" Cora blinks back in disbelief, her arms slackening from around Robert's neck.

He seems just as perplexed by their presence as they do his own. "Cora. Robert, hello," He greets with a stiff nod of his head.

"Are you..." She knits her brow together and dares to boldly ask, "...just getting in from Rosamund's?"

Her brother seems rather unnerved by something as he stammers out a reply, "Uh...no, I just went for a walk this morning."

"Really?" Robert intones, taking a step apart from his wife, and pacing closer to his brother-in-law. "I didn't see you during my time out."

"It..it was a long walk," He asserts plainly, avoiding all eye contact as he keeps moving towards the staircase. His hand rests on top of the banister, and he's about to ascend whenever Robert adds genially.

"Had I known you were awake, I would have asked you to join me. I go out with Isis every morning."

"Well...thank you," Harold bobs his head, not really focusing on anything. He jerks his thumb in the direction of the second floor, "I should be going up. I need to change."

"Yes I think that would be wise," Cora starts with a slight roll of her eyes. She moves to the bottom of the steps while her brother is insistent on disappearing from them. "Especially since you're wearing the same clothes from last night!" She then calls up to his departing figure, deliberately seeking to uncover the reason behind his peculiar behavior.

"I got back late," Harold retorts dryly, clearly not in the mood to argue with his sister, "I thought Slade could use some extra sleep. He's been dead on his feet ever since we arrived."

That's the last she hears from him before a door slams shut on the second floor at Grantham House.

A low rumbling emits from her throat whenever she turns to her husband, "I can't believe him."

"You can't or you don't want to?" He asks for his wife's clarification.

Cora marvels, her mouth gaping open incredulously. "You actually think he was up early and just decided to go for a walk in the same clothes he wore last night?" She folds her arms over her chest waiting for his answer.

"No, I don't." Robert offers before insisting, "But you're his sister. Do you honestly think he'd tell you what his latest indulgences were?"

She pauses for several seconds, thinking over his latest inquiry. Then she comes to the conclusion,"No. But he'd tell you."

"Cora..." He groans whenever he comes to realize just exactly what she's suggesting.

Taking a step towards him, Cora takes both of his hands and pleads, "Robert..."

"No," He shakes his head in disagreement. Taking a few strides away from her, Robert holds his hands up in defeat.

She insists, a certain desperation in her voice. "He trusts you."

"And you'd ask me to betray that trust as soon as he confided in me?" Robert probes.

"It's not betrayal." She tells him plainly, her expression growing more solemn, "You're my husband. We share things."

"Not _everything_," He corrects her underneath a scrutinizing look.

"Oh yes..." Cora states haughtily, "...like what happened in America when you went to rescue my hopeless brother?"

He clears his throat, tugging at the collar of his shirt. "I think I hear Carson in dining room. Perhaps we should see about breakfast."

"I'm not letting this go," She insists while trailing closely behind him.

"I'm afraid you won't," Robert sighs, feeling a sense of defeat overcome him. "I will inquire as to his recent activity, but I can't promise you anything."

It felt a bit dishonest to probe his brother-in-law unnecessarily. However Robert knew his wife, and she wouldn't dismiss her brother's unusual behavior until all possible avenues had been considered. So that's precisely what he'd attempt to do.


End file.
